


The Christmas House

by theremin



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 18,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27818593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theremin/pseuds/theremin
Summary: A 24 part advent calendar! After his divorce, Tom Wambsgans returns to St. Paul to lick his wounds.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 277
Kudos: 115





	1. The Saltbox House

The saltbox house was painted in an unremarkable gray, the slope of its roof dramatic, and it faced a small lake where wild geese landed on their way to warmer climes. It was listed for a very modest 10 000 dollars and Tom Wambsgans braced himself when the realtor opened the door inside.

“Like the ad said, it is a bit of a fixer upper,” she said a little apologetically, leading the way. “mind where you go.”

“Ha, yeah,” Tom said, peering inside the doorway. There was old and broken-down furniture but not the detritus of squatters and drug addicts, and while it smelled musty and old it didn't smell like shit and dead animals, which was good. “honestly, I'd expected worse for this price. Maybe a sink hole, some dead hookers strung up for decor.”

The realtor frowned at him and Tom flushed. The brash New York style he'd worked so hard to adopt didn't really work in St. Paul. “Sorry ma'am,” he mumbled. He tied his dog, Mondale, to the porch and walked inside, taking it all in. The ceilings were high, the windows were big. It had roof beams which were painted a pretty ugly, stark white. He raised his eyebrows. The house wasn't much to look at right now, but it had the potential to be beautiful.

“Well,” she said. “if you'll follow me upstairs.”

They walked up a narrow staircase and Tom looked over the bathroom, the bedrooms. “The master is downstairs, and we have two bedrooms up here. Very nice for a family,” the realtor said.

“Hmm,” Tom said. The realtor looked at him with a sort of encouraging smile, clearly wanted him to volunteer information about the wife and kids. Tom didn't say anything, just smiled back. 

“This isn’t a house for a bachelor,” the realtor said, still smiling encouragingly. 

“No, no,” Tom agreed, and then went quiet again. What was there to say? The divorce had come through only a week before, and with it the wholesale destruction of all his dreams. It was almost funny to think about how optimistic he'd been only a year before. How happy. He really thought he would have it all. A glamorous, mutually supportive and wildly successful marriage, an amazing career, fatherhood. All those hopes.

Gone.

Not to mention the fact his performance on the stand in Washington had made him a laughing stock, and Kendall's current insane power ploy had made him a ready lubed fuckbag for any stray legal rage boners, which all added up to that Tom kind of couldn't get out of New York quick enough. So he'd gone home, to St. Paul, to his parents. But you could only spend so much fucking time licking your wounds and feeling sorry for yourself. His forty-third birthday had arrived and while Tom would have preferred to let it pass in silence his mom had woken him up with a piece of cake like she did when he was little and invited all his family, his cousins and his aunts and his uncles and they'd all looked at him with this – this pity, but it was a smug pity, a well-what-did-you-think-was-going-to-happen-Tom pity, and it had pissed him off.

So he'd started looking for properties, local but not too close to his family, and the saltbox house had made him stop in his tracks when he'd been scrolling. It was an unusual style for Minnesota, it reminded him of New York and New England, it had a fucking _lake view,_ and it was practically being given away. A fixer upper. A project. Something he could throw himself into while he figured out his next move.

And taking in the saltbox house while the realtor talked somewhere in the distance about its history, for the first time in months, he felt happy. 

“I think I've seen enough,” he said.

“Well, you’ll think about it and let me know?”

“Yes ma’am,” Tom Wambsgans said, looked around at the dilapidated house, and smiled.


	2. The Unexpected Visitor

Tom had printed out the spec and contract for the saltbox house and asked his mom to give it a look-over. Honestly all he really cared about was the price (for 10k he could afford to fucking abandon it if need be), but she’d taught him never to sign anything he, or a lawyer with his best interest in mind, hadn’t read.

Of course he could read it himself but considering his mom was right there, why would he?

It was odd how moving back in with your parents made you revert to your old, young, lazy pig self. While Tom’s old room wasn’t quite a museum to his youth, it had been used as a guest room the last couple of decades, it had enough of his old belongings and was familiar enough to bring Tom back to the 90s. The bed might be bigger, a decent queen-size where his old single had been before, the posters were gone – Heather Locklear was no longer smiling cheerfully from the wall – but at some core level, it felt the same. His old CD-player was still there, his modest stack of old CDs, he was playing Billy Joel’s Storm Front, an old favorite, humming along to “We Didn’t Start The Fire”. Wow, they did not write them like that anymore. He was reading a threadbare, yellowed Savage Sword of Conan comic book. Those had been inherited from some cousin many, many years ago, and while the young Tom had had been far more enamored with the icy sophistication of James Bond, or the brash confidence of Top Gun’s Maverick, there had been something illicitly exciting about the loincloth-wearing, virile Cimmerian and picking the old comics up he was kind of riveted again, so transported into the old, savage world he almost jumped a foot in the air when there was a knock on the door.

“Tommy,” his mom said, opening the door. “you’ve got company.”

“Huh,” he said, sitting up in bed, throwing the comic book aside. “what?”

He didn’t really have friends left in St. Paul. God, had some old school or college buddy come to look him up? Unless they were as failed and divorced as him, he did not want to see them, and even then he wasn’t so sure. Then his mother stepped aside, and Tom stared.

Tall, involuntarily imposing, big hands in the pockets of his peacoat, his hair longer than the last time he’d seen him and almost back to the level of weird floppiness it had been the first time they’d met, was mother fucking Cousin Greg.

“A ha ha,” Tom brayed, smiling hard. “Greeg! Good to see you, buddy!”

His mom smiled. There was an odd relief there. Tom hadn’t caused much worry over the years, he’d been a popular and well liked kid, a diligent student, and while his engagement had probably come a little late in life for his parents taste he’d never really had dark, lonely or insecure times in his life. Until now. His parents had handled it all with their normal – their blessedly normal – Midwestern no-nonsense approach, affection and care. But he’d seen something unfamiliar in his mother’s eyes, a concern. Tom’s pain was no longer a burden to only himself, and frankly that too had been a motivating factor in getting his fucking life back on track. 

And now here she was, smiling, happy a friend had come over to check on her pathetic son. 

“Well I’ll leave you alone,” Tom’s mom said, “dinner in an hour, Tommy, you’re very welcome to stay Greg.”

“Thank you, ma’am, that sounds, delectable,” Greg said. Well, he hadn’t changed.

Tom’s mom closed the door and Tom got up.

“Hey!” Greg said, grinning, opening his arms for a hug. 

Tom reached out his arms too, and shoved Greg in the chest so he teetered backwards.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Tom felt his face tighten into a look that was probably maniacal. “What is this, you muppet Quisling? You fucking Jim Henson animatronic.” He made a fist. “You think Kermit's got it bad, wait and see what happens to your anal cavity if you don't fuck off back home in your clown car.”

Greg’s mouth fell open a little, and he blinked like a sleepy cat. There was an awkward silence. “Can- can we just talk?”


	3. The Yacht

The last time Tom had seen Greg, they had both been on the Roy yacht, and Tom was having what was the worst day of his whole entire life. He’d diverted a threesome which he had wanted to want but just, truly, did not, and instead of being met with support and understanding he’d gotten the usual clipped Shiv “that’s fine Tom” which he had very well come to know meant “fuck off Tom”, then he’d been thrown to the fucking wolves during the deliberation, defended not by his wife, who seemed more determined to prime him as a good candidate to take the fall for something which was _not his fault_ and if it was up to him would have been dealt with fairly months ago, but by _Kendall,_ who rightly but still a little painfully pointed out Tom was way too insignificant a sacrificial lamb, and then he’d effectively ended his marriage, yelled at the woman he’d promised himself he would spend his life making happy. So, he figured he might as well go out in a blaze of glory, marched over to Logan Roy, eaten his chicken and then walked off to death row, which in this case meant an unused guest cabin. He’d curled up on the bed, lying on his side, hummed “Mad World” to himself in a high voice, and wondered what prison would be like. He probably needed to join a gang, for protection. But which gang would have him? Was there a white-collar gang? That could work. He could be like the old guys in Goodfellas, making pasta and listening to opera. He figured the only other gang option for the former head of ATN would be the Nazi brotherhood, and that just would not look good on the resume if he ever got out of prison, plus he’d seen Oz, he knew what kind of branding deals a merger like that could lead too.

Then there had been a timid knock, and Tom had not answered. Then someone had tried the door, and it slowly opened, and Tom looked up and up into the concerned face of Greg Hirsch. He came in, uninvited, closed the door behind him.

“Go away,” Tom said tunelessly. “leave me alone.”

“I just wanted to like, say? That was totally not cool? What Shiv said? Like, I kind of couldn’t believe what I was hearing, there.”

Tom could only shrug, the unexpected empathy making tears sting hotly at the back of his eyelids. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What?”

“For dragging you down with me.”

“It’s going to be okay, I think,” Greg said. “like ah, things can still happen.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, swallowing down the wobble in his voice, trying to sound normal. “maybe they’ll let us share a cell. I’ll give you a one-week grace period before I make you my prison wife.” He looked over his shoulder at Greg again. “You don’t have any gang connections, do you?”

“Stop joking around,” Greg said, kind of sighed it. “this is like, pretty serious.”

“No shit,” Tom said, hugged himself. He wanted to tell Greg to leave again, but he didn’t actually want Greg to leave. The big gangly dork, the far and away most useless and least significant leaf on the Roy clan family tree, had turned out to be the only one out of them that actually gave a shit about Tom Wambsgans and Tom didn’t want to be alone, not really. The room was very quiet, and Tom waited for Greg to give up and leave but then he moved, and he laid down on the bed, behind Tom, one timid hand reaching out to drape a thin arm over Tom’s middle. Just resting, still.

Tom had no idea what to say to that.

So he didn’t say anything.

It was all he could do not to turn around and cling onto Greg and cry his fucking eyes out.

He wasn’t sure how long they lay there like that, in fragile silence, before the weight of the day finally claimed Tom’s consciousness and he fell asleep. When Tom woke up, Greg was gone, and the next time he saw him, it was on the news, during Kendall’s press conference, looming with an unfamiliar determined look on his face and a manila folder of “Secret” documents close to his chest.


	4. The Roy Games

“Oh you wanna taalk?” Tom said in a mocking voice, moving his jaw around. “What do you wanna talk about, you fucking carny?”

Greg sighed, took his peacoat off and draped it over a chair.

“That’s right, make yourself at home,” Tom said, a little incredulous, waving his hands around. “Take your pants off, fart a little, finish my Coke.”

Greg sat down on the chair next to Tom’s old desk, looked up at him. He very clearly wanted Tom to sit down opposite, on the bed. Well, fuck that. Tom would stand.

Greg looked good. Patricide, or, well, uncle-cide, with a side of blameless-in-law-cide, clearly agreed with him. He was wearing an expensive-looking green knit jumper and tailored pants and he had on a very big fucking watch, a geometric ring. Tom was wearing an old hoodie and gray sweatpants, and there was three day shadow on his face.

“You look nice,” Greg said, and Tom blinked. 

“Very fucking funny. What are you doing here?”

Greg looked a little taken aback, again. “I uh, I wanted to see you? I wanted to know how you are?”

“I’m a 43-year-old divorced man reading Conan the Barbarian comics in my old bedroom in my elderly parents’ house, I’m doing great. Thinking about growing a ponytail, buying a wolf T-shirt, completing the look.”

“It’s temporary,” Greg said, comfortingly.

“Fuck you, Greg, I know it’s temporary. But thanks for showing up to gawk at my misery.” He frowned a little. “I kind of have to admire the balls on you, coming here after you very publicly hung me out to dry. Well, I’ll have you know, my lawyer says you won’t be able to use me as a patsy, and if you try, I’ll go to the media, sing like a bird.”

“It’s not about any of that, like, obviously it never was about you, dude. It’s about uncle Logan,” Greg said. Then he tilted his head. “maybe you can sit down?”

He looked down at where Greg was sitting. If he sat down opposite, on the bed, their knees would practically knock together. On the yacht, when Greg had pulled his Judas-kiss-by-way-of-big-spoon act, his knee had come forward at one point, connecting to the back of Tom’s, and there had been a deranged kind of intimacy to it he had no intention of summoning back like some undead demon from hell.

“No, I can stand for two minutes, and that’s all you get, sunshine.”

Greg bit his lip. “Things are kind of, kicking off, back in New York. It kind of got too much for me? With like, the press, all the- have you been paying attention, by the way?”

Tom shrugged. “No, I’m leaving all that to my lawyer.” He had faintly registered the media noise around the Roy scandal, but just the thought of reading about it all made him want to throw up.

“Yeah, like, it kind of looks like this whole project is going pear-shaped, Tom. I’m scared.”

The admission made Tom frown, and without thinking he sat down opposite Greg. “My mo- my lawyer said it looks like Kendall is going to win the board members. Apparently, it had been their preference to sacrifice Logan from the go. She said it’s just a matter of time.”

Greg shook his head. “Kendall has good press guys, but it’s actually not going really well. Some of the board members turned on Logan, but most of them are loyal to him. Dude, they’ve known each other since like, the fifties, some of them, and they have a lot of sway. And Logan’s legal team is working overtime, I have like, ten lawsuits, against me? Personally? Like, dude, it’s a fucking nightmare.”

“Welcome to the Roy games,” Tom said, shrugged. “high mortality rate.”

“Yeah, and like, with the press, with everything- I just needed to get away.”

“Greg,” Tom said, his voice darkening with suspicion.

“And like, I really could use a place to crash.”

Tom’s eyes flicked down to Greg’s expensive watch. “Get a fucking hotel. Go abroad.”

“That, would not be possible. My salary has been frozen. Like I can still live rent free in the apartment but like, dude, all I have are my savings right now. And there are reporters pushing like, cameras in my face every time I leave the building.” He got a weird beseeching look on his face. He’d seen that one before.

“Are you really trying to tell me I’m your last option? How stupid do you think I am?”

“No, you’re not,” Greg conceded. “I could go to my mom. I could go to my grandpa, he’s uh, actually really enjoying all of this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy. But um.” He bit his lip, looked at Tom with big dark eyes. “Like, just for a few days? If it’s okay with your mom and dad?”

“Jesus Christ,” Tom said.


	5. The Soft Touch

Downstairs, Tom’s dad was cooking, and it smelled good. He'd been excited earlier about having picked up a whole duck. He started amiably asking Greg some questions about his trip and Mondale padded up to Greg to say hi, tail wagging, so Tom took the opportunity to pull his mom aside.

“Mommy, I thought you said not to talk to the family? What are you doing?”

“What are you talking about, Tommy?”

“The Roys!” Tom nodded to Greg.

“Oh, but-” his mom sounded a little confused. “he said his name was Hirsch.”

“He's, he's Logan's great nephew. His mom is a Roy.”

“Oh gosh Tommy, I'm so sorry. He didn't say. He just said he was your friend.”

“You met him, at the- the wedding, don't you remember? How could you forget? He’s an eight-foot man with eyes like a cow trying to do math.”

“Oh- goodness, there were so many people.” She tilted his head. “Wait, did you dance with him at the reception?”

Tom face felt warm. He’d gotten pretty hammered that night, and yes, yes he had. Everybody had been dancing except Greg, he'd just been standing there like a wallflower from the Little Shop of Horrors, bopping awkwardly to “Uptown Funk”, and Tom had walked over and pulled him onto the dance floor. At the time it had seemed like a friendly gesture to let Greg know they were back on good terms and he appreciated him looking out for him. At any other time and to any other person that intent maybe wasn’t quite so obvious. Time to change the subject. “He’s the cousin, Kendall’s source on the inside.”

Tom’s mom blinked, and a hard, determined look appeared on her face, her lawyer look. “I don’t like the sound of that. I’ll kick him out. Politely.”

“No,” Tom sighed, “it’s okay. It’s fine.”

“No, Tommy, I don’t think it is. We don’t know what he wants.”

Tom cleared his throat. “He didn’t lie. We are friends. And um, you know, he’s young, and I think he’s in a little over his head.”

She shook her head. “You’re such a soft touch, Tommy. Okay. He can stay for dinner. Keep conversation light.”

“My specialty,” he said, touched her arm, and she put her hand over his.

Turned out Greg was the least keen of all to discuss the Waystar situation. He talked about his trip – he’d driven out, for some reason – about how his mom wanted him to come home for Christmas, but he wasn’t sure yet, about some cooking show he liked to watch. Tom could tell his dad liked Greg, he laughed at his comments and told him about his cooking hobby.

“Like, this is so good, you should be on Masterchef, you’d kill it, mister Wambsgans,” Greg said, and Tom felt very weird. He hadn’t expected the enforced adolescence of having to move back home would include cringing through his friends politely sucking up to his parents over dinner. Even Tom’s mom was more or less won over by the end of it, and Greg was formally invited to stay in the second guest bedroom for the night. 

“Keep it light, Tommy,” his mother reminded him when she and Tom’s dad retreated upstairs, leaving the two of them in the sitting room, some unfunny old Mel Brooks movie playing on the TV.

“Good night, Mr and Mrs Wambsgans,” Greg said obliviously.

“You total suck-up,” Tom said, turning to Greg. 

“What? I’m being polite,” Greg said, grinned. “and I like them. They’re nice. You’re lucky.”

Tom scoffed. They went quiet for a while, there was only the sound of the TV in the room.

“Do you know what you’re going to do?” Greg asked, and Tom felt relieved he had an answer. Even a little proud. The plan was really good, and he was genuinely excited about it.

“I’m going to make an offer on an old house, renovate it. It's ah, kind of a mess right now but it has good bones. Really architecturally interesting, it should keep me occupied for a while. It's actually a real gem, and cheap too. It'll cost a bit to renovate it of course but I don't care. Maybe I’ll flip it for a profit, or I might just move back to St. Paul for good, and then I could live in it. I wouldn't mind. It has a lake view.”

“That's nice!”

“Yes, Greg, yes it is.” He shrugged. “So, yeah, the house. That should keep me busy for a while, hopefully it will all blow over, and then I can, I don't know, maybe go back into law. There's always a market. Even for someone with my google results. Did you know I'm a gif?”

“Can I see it?”

Tom frowned at him, eyebrows meeting in a scrunch. “Huh?”

“I mean the house. We could drive out. I’d like to. I’ve never been to St. Paul before, I'd like to have a look around. Are there any famous sights?”

“Umm,” Tom said, racking his brain, feeling that familiar little burn of shame over his modest midwestern background. Which was ridiculous. Greg wasn't a New York-raised, continent-hopping Roy, he was from – where was he from? Well, somewhere in Canada anyway, how fucking impressive could it be. “I uh, I actually e-mailed the realtor a little earlier, asked for a meeting tomorrow. The office isn't too far a drive from the house. Come along if you want.”

“Cool,” Greg said.


	6. The Contract

Early in the afternoon the next day Greg was in the passenger seat of Tom's car, looking out on the road. Mondale, demoted to the backseat, kept sticking his head out in between them, panting. 

“It's super Christmassy,” Greg remarked.

“Mmm. Lot of snow this year,” Tom said. “here, we'll drive by before we go to the real estate office.” He turned, and they drove for a while until they reached the saltbox house, and Tom let the car gently roll to a standstill in the driveway.

“Hm,” Greg said.

“It's got real potential,” Tom said.

“Is it- I mean, has it at any point, in time, been used as a crack house?”

“No,” Tom said, annoyed. “shut up.”

He hit the gas and turned the steering wheel, making a U-turn and driving back onto the main road. Another fifteen minutes later he and Greg were walking down a nondescript white hallway, Tom's realtor walking in front, pleasantly chattering. 

“Would you gentlemen like any coffee, tea?”

“Oh, yes please,” Greg said and Tom nodded, was about to answer. Then the cell phone in his pocket started chiming. He looked at it and frowned. It was his mom. Shit, maybe it was about the contract? Since she hadn't said anything he assumed she'd given it the once-over and it was just a standard, but he should probably answer, just in case.

“Sorry, I need to take this, two minutes,” he said apologetically, smiling with teeth. The realtor and Greg nodded and disappeared into her office, leaving Tom in the hallway.

“Hi mommy!”

“Hi, Tommy,” his mom said, in a slightly odd tone of voice. “where are you?”

“Umm, I told you this morning, I was coming in to sign the papers on the house? There aren't any other interested buyers so I'm getting it at value. Me and Greg are at the office right now.”

“Is- is there something you want to tell me, Tommy?” 

“Huh?”

“Well, there's a rather- unusual clause- in this contract-”

“Clause?”

“The clause that states the house will only be sold to a couple and they both have to show up to the signing of the contract?”

Tom blinked. “I- I'll call you back, mommy.”

He rushed into the office.

“-about two years ago?” Greg said, in the middle of the answer to something. “Like, at a, surprise party for my um, my uncle. Yeah, I'd say, we hit it off right away.” He looked up at Tom, grinned that dopey smile of his.

“Oh that's nice. You only ever hear about people meeting on the internet these days. I'm old-fashioned that way I guess!”

“Uhh,” Greg said. “I guess, yeah.”

“Have you thought about having children?”

“What?” Greg said. 

“A ha ha ha haa!” Tom brayed, sat down on the chair next to Greg's and draped his arm around Greg, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “First things first. Now, um, about the whole ah, relationship clause-”

“Wha-” Greg started again but Tom dug his thumb hard under his shoulder blade and he squirmed, shut up.

“Do we both have to sign, or is it enough the house is in my name? I'm the more financially solvent party and ah, I don't want Gregory here to risk any debt burden, as it is a bit of a speculative purchase.”

The realtor tilted her head. “Good question.” She got out the contract, leafed through the papers until she found the one she wanted, started reading with a frown. “Hmm. No, it does not specify that both parties sign, only that both parties must be present during the signing.”

“Good, good,” Tom said.

“It is an eccentric clause, like we talked about,” she said and Tom turned a little white. He'd tuned out quite a lot when they'd been to the viewing, too caught up in his day dreams about what the house could become. “but the owner insisted. It's ah- well, it's a house that has seen a lot of pain, and I suppose it was her idea of assuring it would be filled with love.”

“A ha ha,” Tom said, grinned big and white. “well, me and my saucy little poutine here will make it into a real love nest, don't you worry!”

Greg's mouth fell open a little.

“Well, excellent, then I suppose there's nothing left to do except sign here, here, and here, Mr Wambsgans.”

“A ha ha! Thank you!” Tom pulled his arm back, leaned over the desk and signed.


	7. A Helping Hand

“Are- are we like, legally married now?” Greg whispered, leaning down in the hallway.

“Don't be fucking stupid,” Tom snapped.

“Like, is this why you invited me to come along?”

“What? You invited yourself, Betty Spaghetti.”

“You didn't know??”

“I uh- I hadn't- I assumed the contract would be the standard-”

“Oh man, oh man,” Greg said, visibly nervous for some reason. “I gotta call my mom.”

“Calm the hell down,” Tom said, stopping in the hallway to face him. He was all flustered and pink. “This was just a stupid little formality, a bit of dumb luck.” He slapped Greg's shoulder, hard. “You managed to be useful, by accident. We should celebrate!”

He turned at a noise and the realtor walked out of her office, gave them a wave. Tom pulled Greg down into a hug, scrunched one hand in Greg’s jumper and used it to crush Greg to him and the other to wave back, behind Greg. 

“We're so happy!” he said.

*

Tom told Greg to drive, and silently read through the contract on his phone. In the backseat Mondale sighed, lying on his side, bored.

_The house cannot be sold to a single person. The couple must both attend at the signing of the contract and appear loving and solid in their relationship._

Jesus Christ. Well, at least that little bit of improv had been believable. But seriously, this had to break every discrimination law out there. Which kind of made Tom's spur of the moment lie okay, like morally, right?

_The couple will live in the house together for at least a year._

Whaat the fuck?? What the _fuck?_ Tom blinked. Could this be why nobody had bought it? It was like the plot of some shitty movie from the 80s. He frowned a little. Smart, in a way. His mom had been bitching about house flippers buying up every available house and selling them for a ton of profit, raising up prices and excluding first time buyers, at least a weirdo clause like this would help prevent a situation like that if that was something you were worried about.

He didn't really like the sound of that one year thing though. He had no intention of going all Mr Rochester on Greg and locking him up in the attic, and he truly didn't believe this would actually get followed up on, but there might be a “friendly” house call within the first week or so. 

“Um,” he said. “you know, ah, if- if you really need to lay low, or whatever, for a while, you could help me out at the house.”

“Huh?”

“Like, it's full of junk, there's a million things that need doing. I could really use another set of hands.”

“Oh.” Greg went a little quiet. “I'm not super handy.”

“No?”

“No, I mean, uh, yes? Just, don't expect much? In terms of, capability?”

Tom snorted. “Why start now?” 

*

At the dinner table that night, Tom's dad had prepared a very nice Boeuf Bourguignon and Tom's mom had cracked opened one of the special, twenty year old wines, to celebrate the occasion. 

“Haaahh,” Greg said, having bit into a too-hot piece of meat and started fanning his open mouth.

“Christ, here,” Tom said, picked up his water glass and thrust it into his hand, and Greg drank. “You okay?”

“Mm”

Tom looked over at his mother, who was looking at them with an unreadable expression and a little tilt to her head. 

“So, Gregory, will you be moving on, back to New York?”

“Aah,” Greg said.

“He's staying for a while,” Tom said. “he's going to help me out at the house.” He shrugged. “Just for a week or two.”

There was a silence.

“That's nice. More potatoes, dear?”


	8. In The Red

Greg's face turned a little ruddy when he drank, and he was pretty deep into Tom's parents' reds and Tom's dad had just opened another bottle. Tom was talking animatedly about his plans for the house, how he'd already ordered a container to get it cleared out.

Tom's mom wiggled her glass a little and Tom's dad topped it up. 

“Tommy,” she said. “ah, Gregory. Well. Ah. Look, Tommy, you know me and dad love you? No matter what?”

“Aww,” Greg said, grinning.

Tom blinked. “Well um, I love you too.”

“And haven't we always told you, you can tell us everything?”

“Angelaa,” Tom's dad said in a slightly warning tone.

“Sure,” Tom said. He wasn't sure what the hell this was, but he'd absolutely lived by that credo most of his life, and he'd turned pretty cagey the last year. Well, what was he supposed to tell them? My wife is trying to make me into some kind of _swinger_ , some kind of brazen pervert who posts his dick and his address on the internet, first come first serve? Your daughter-in-law rates your son somewhere in the high thirties on the list of people she wants to fuck? 

“This _hurts_ me,” Tom's mom said to Tom's dad, tipsy emotion putting a wobble in her voice, her open palm over her chest. 

“What does, mommy?” Tom said, entirely confused.

“Well- I called you earlier and we talked about that clause in the contract of the house you bought, and you told me you were there with Greg.”

“Aaah,” Tom said. That was right. He was supposed to call her back, come up with some credible excuse for how he'd pulled that whole situation off.

“And dad here tells me his friend Susan from school messaged him on Facebook to tell him she'd just sold a house to his son and his lovely boyfriend.”

The color drained from Tom's face. He could hear Greg make an awkward sort of groan under his breath next to him. 

“Umm,” Tom said in a high voice. He needed to come up with something to say, fast, but his brain was entirely empty. Come clean? Should probably just come clean. But. His mom would be furious with him for having lied about something like that to buy a house, especially if she found out he planned to flip it too, maybe. And god, if his dad knew the realtor, she'd probably call her up and tell her. Jesus Christ, this was second grade and the time he borrowed – not stole, borrowed – Andy Svenson's Skeletor action figure, all over again. What if he lost the house? Then he was back on square one. He didn't want to be back on square one. Square one had sucked.

Tom's dad took Tom's mom's wine glass away. “I think maybe we should all go to bed.”

Tom looked over at Greg, who was just staring, eyes dark and round, with a stupid look on his face.

“I just-” Tom said, in a slightly high voice, “uhh- I'm sorry, mommy.”

“Tom,” Greg said.

“Ah, well, honey,“ Tom said, turning to him. “now you've met the parents.”

“Tomm,” Greg said, in a kind of urgent half-whisper.

“Oh goodness me,” Tom's mom said, her voice breaking a little. “was that so hard?”

She got up, opened her arms, and Tom got up too and hugged her. 

“You too, Greg,” she said when she pulled away and he got up too and hugged her. He pulled away a little dazed-looking.

Tom's dad got up too, hugged Tom and shook Greg's hand. 

“Me and dad support you fully,” she said.

“Thanks um, thanks mom.”

“And we will not treat you any differently from any of Tommy's girlfriends,” Tom's mom told Greg decisively.

“A ha ha,” Tom said, “it's ah, it's pretty late mom, I think maybe we should all hit the hay. Big ah, big day tomorrow.”

“Exactly. Greg, get your things, you're moving into Tommy's room.”


	9. Pillow Talk

Greg was lying next to Tom, his hands folded over his chest, his knees pulled up, taking the covers with them and exposing Tom's feet, but it felt a little churlish to complain. They'd initially tried making a cot on the floor but it just did not work and Greg had suggested he just sneak back into the guestroom, but Tom refused, so he had in the end had to lift up the covers and jerk his head and Greg had looked at him for a beat before he sighed and climbed in. It wasn't so bad, the queen size was definitely on the smaller side for two grown men lying shoulder to shoulder, but it was just for the one night.

“Tom.” Greg's tone was a little firmer than usual. “Do you think, maybe. This is spiraling a little bit?”

“I panicked,” Tom said.

“You just like. Came out to your parents. Like, both of us. Outed.”

“Aah.”

“You're not even gay. That's like, highly problematic.”

“I know, I know.”

“I feel like, maybe, we need an exit strategy.”

Tom groaned a little. “Look, we'll move into the house tomorrow, we'll work on that for a few days, then you have to go back to New York on business or whatever, and after an appropriate amount of time, maybe a month or two, I tell my parents you dumped me. How's that?”

“I dumped you?”

“Yes, you can dump me,” Tom said graciously. “since you're being such a good sport.” His hand came up to reach over and pat Greg's shoulder, but it hovered for a moment and then he drew it back, changing his mind. This was probably not the best time to initiate a touching situation.

“Why do I dump you?” Greg asked.

“Geeze, does it matter? I'm too old for you, too much baggage. I snore. You found someone better.”

“That's stupid,” Greg huffed. “I wouldn't do that.”

“Well, they don't know that.”

“Besides, how are we supposed to stay in the shack you bought? Half the windows don't have glass in them.”

“There's glass in most of them! Okay, some of them are shattered, but like, it's still there.”

“We're going to get tetanus.”

“No we won't, calm down. The upstairs is a lot better than the downstairs, I think we could come up with a temporary solution. Get some battery driven ovens in.” Tom glanced over at Greg. “I'm actually really looking forward to it? I've always wanted to renovate a house.”

Greg frowned. “You have? Why?”

“I don't know. I've always been a homebody. Don't get me wrong, I can party down with the best of them, as well you know, my friend.”

“Sure.”

“But it's nice to come back home, too. And I've always just- wanted to make something, perfect for me. Or, me and...” He sighed a little. “I aired it to Shiv, maybe buy a house, do it together? Like, a home to grow old in, something good for kids, somewhere with a yard for Mondale to run around, a little den for me...” He heard his own voice going wistful. “She shut down that pretty quick, a ha ha!”

“Yeah,” Greg said, squirming a little. “guess uh, she's not the type.”

“Nope,” Tom said. “she would only move into an apartment if she liked the décor that was already there.”

“I didn't think rich people moved into furnished homes.”

“Yeah. Poor people and rich people. Decorating is for the middle classes.”

There was a little silence, and then Greg shifted, straightened his legs out, turned over on his side, looked at him with his weird inscrutable interest. It was a very particular Greg look, a look Tom had never really figured out what meant, but that he'd basically written off as being down to Greg's Tintin eyes, his kabuki mask face. If his mom hadn't been abducted by gray aliens in the early 90s and he'd been fully human you'd probably be able to tell what the guy was thinking, like a normal person. As it were you just had to wait for him to volunteer that information.

“I think it sounds pretty cool,” Greg said. “the decorating thing. When you put it like that.”

Tom's mouth tugged into a grateful smile. “Good night, Greg.”

“Goodnight,” Greg sighed, and turned around, leaving Tom looking at his long back for a moment before he reached over to his bedside table, secured the nasal strip he found there over the bridge of his nose, and then turned out the light.


	10. Day One

Something was tickling Tom's nose, and he shook his head a little, to get rid of it, but it didn't help. He huffed air out of his nose. Then he blinked awake and realised he was leaning his face into a mop of black hair. Greg was sleeping on his side, head tucked onto Tom's shoulder, one long arm gentle up Tom's chest, a large hand curling slightly under Tom's throat. Tom's arm on the opposite side was arching over his head, and the other was slung over his own stomach, making room for Greg. 

Well, this was awkward.

He raised his arm, lowered it to Greg's wrist and started gently pulling it away, hopefully to disentangle them without Greg waking up. But then Greg just sighed big, slid his arm away and up to Tom's neck, pushed his face into Tom's chest. Tom felt his limbs stiffen. Greg was clearly in the land of nod, dreaming of his ideal woman. Probably Olive Oyl. Better wake him up before he started humping his hip and drooling.

“Ah, Greg.”

“Mmmmm?”

“Greg,”

“Yeah.”

“Greg, get off me.”

Greg's body instantly went from all languid and soft to a meccano tangle of hard, wiry limbs and jumped away. “Fuck, sorry, man.”

“It's okay, it's fine.”

“I kind of, have a temperature, regulation issue? Like, I get really cold? At night? Like sometimes I wake up and I can't even feel my arms? Dead guy arms. And uh I guess like, subconsciously, uh, or, maybe, subphysically-”

“It doesn't matter. Just, move, I need to go for a piss.”

Greg rolled out of the way, sat up, and Tom climbed out of bed, in his pajamas. 

In the bathroom, going through the motions, he sighed. He felt... so rested. Barring the little occurrence on the yacht (and by all means, bar it), he hadn't slept next to anyone since Shiv, and well, that hadn't been a very regular happening either nearing the end. Or, well, he had at his lowest point allowed Mondale to sleep at the foot of the bed, sighing and snoring, the proximity a genuine, pathetic comfort.

A little later in the day they were driving out to the house, the container had already arrived. Greg's cheeks were a little red from the cold, he stuck his hands under his armpits.

“Do you think maybe this is a bad- time to do this?”

“Huh?”

“Like, it's freezing?”

“We'll get warmed up, don't worry. Ha ha, do you good, a little physical labour! Firm up those boiled pasta arms!” He reached over to slap Greg's shoulder and he winced, shrinking in on himself.

“Jesus,” Greg said under his breath entering the house. 

“I know how it looks,” Tom said reassuringly. “um, I think, today, we just start clearing stuff out, and then ah, we can maybe plan a little.”

They placed battery-driven ovens and lights everywhere they could get to, got rolls of trash bags out and got to work. Ground rules: everything that looked broken, ugly or infected got thrown into the container and anything that looked like it had potential would get assessed by Tom. They roamed around the first floor, trash bags in hand, and cooperated on the larger pieces. They carried out a dilapidated old sofa and Greg was humming a steady stream of “oh man oh man oh man oh man”'s throughout, but they got it in the container in the end. After several hours work they'd managed to beat clean paths through most of the first floor, uncovered a beautiful brick fireplace and get most of the stuff Tom wanted a second look at gathered in one corner.

“It's not so bad,” Greg said, and Tom wondered if that was the first time that professional whiner had said those words in that order in his life. He was perched on a tall wooden chair, in the white glow of the lights, eating takeaway pizza daintily. He was wearing a grey hoodie which had somehow survived in the Wambsgans house since Tom's high school days, his expensive knitwear left behind for something more suitable for clearing out an abandoned house. His hair was a little stringy with sweat. “like I thought I would freeze my ass off but it's okay.”

“Would have taken me days to get this far on my own,” Tom said. “thanks, man.”

Greg looked down a little shyly. “Yeah. It's good to be out of New York, so you're kinda doing me a favor too.”

“Ah, I'm sorry,” Tom said. “but I don't think we'll be able to get the upstairs ready by today. Definitely tomorrow though.” He cleared his throat. “You okay with cuddling up for another night, honey?”

Greg flushed a little and Tom grinned.

“Yeah,” he said in a soft voice. “I don't mind.”


	11. The Love Shack

The second day the house was a beehive of activity. Sitting in bed with his iPad until the wee hours of the night, Greg sleeping like the dead next to him (smelling almost distractingly nice and clean after his forty minute shower, Tom had started to worry he'd drowned in there), Tom had arranged for the water and electricity to get turned back on, ordered pest control, a city official to assess safety, an electrician, he'd even ordered new windows and people to come put them in and get rid of the old ones. He was walking all over, talking to one person and then the next, making notes and crossing out items.

“It hasn't been derelict that long, all things considered,” the official told him. “it's up to regulation standards and I think you've been lucky, I can't see any damp spots or varmint.”

“I have a pest control guy in.”

“Good, good. Well mister Wambsgans, I'd like to do a follow up visit when you're done with the place just to make sure, but right now it looks like you have everything in order. I'll send you a list of fire safety precautions you need to take.” He looked around. “So where's the mrs?”

“Um, what?”

“Well, this house is famous. The love shack.”

“The what now?”

“Just a funny nickname, down at city hall. It's got a lot of potential as a home, this house, but that weird clause about it only being sold to a couple and them having to live in it for a while put most people off I guess, considering the state of it.”

“It's- um- well, it's me and my ah, boyfriend, actually,” Tom said, the word feeling strange and unwieldy in his mouth. 

“Oh, oh, sorry,” the official said.

“That's okay. Most people assume I'm straight, I mean, I guess I give off that vibe, quite strongly.”

“Uhm.”

“Not really the case with my Gregory, haha. He's more...” Tom bobbed a flat hand. “you know.”

“Uh-huh.” The official looked a little uncomfortable.

“Yeah there's really no doubt as to who wears the pants in this- oh, there he is!” Tom waved, stepped onto the porch.

Greg and Tom's dad drove up in a rental truck. He kind of wanted Greg out of the way with all the workers in so he'd told him to go look through the basement for furniture they could borrow while they were going to be camping out at the house. And then his dad had got all excited and wanted to help, saying he'd take a day off work. Tom had felt a little nervous leaving Greg with his father, but Greg hadn't looked too freaked out about it. They pulled up and Greg got out, then he opened the backdoor and Mondale jumped out too, tail wagging as he stuck his nose into Tom's open hand by way of greeting.

“Hey ah, hey babe,” Tom said, sliding his free hand down Greg's arm. “find anything good?”

“Yeah we did pretty good, didn't we pa?”

Tom's dad chuckled. “We sure did.”

Pa?? What the fucking fuck. Tom frowned. What was happening? In more than two years Shiv had never graduated beyond “Bill”, mostly referring to the man as “your dad”.

“So where do you want all this, boys?”

“Um, upstairs, dad, but it's okay, me and Greg can-”

“Oh nonsense,” his dad said. “I'm not letting you two have all the fun.”

So the three of them carried up the spoils of the Wambsgans basement - an old bed, a desk, two chairs, a little table, a lamp, a couple of cardboard boxes of things Tom's mom had picked out.

“Oh, right, plates and cutlery,” Tom said, pulling them out of one box and then unfolding a white curtain. “that's probably... smart.”

“You need a woman for some things, son,” Tom's dad said and Greg made a noise and that weird grimace which meant he was fighting a laugh.


	12. The Upstairs

The upstairs were, as Tom had said, really not that bad. There was, for example, a functional bathroom. The water was turned back on and ran brown for a few minutes but clear soon enough, so the hideous orange toilet with the wood finish seat which would be replaced as soon as possible worked, as did the ugly steel shower in the moldy cabinet (well, not so moldy anymore, there hadn't been that much but when Tom had seen he'd had a minor panic attack and spent an hour scrubbing it clean). One of the doors to the little cabinet fell off when Tom opened it and he'd made a horrified noise and Greg had got the crowbar, wrenched it off the wall and carried it down to the container. There were two small bedrooms, neither of which had much in them and were easily cleared. A water-damaged copy of Little Women. Some faded papers which were impossible to read. The ring from a can of coke. Greg picked up the trash then vacuumed a little half-heartedly, missing the corners, and Tom made a mental note not to put Greg on cleaning duty. 

“Which room do you want?” Tom asked. He'd instructed Greg to bring the fold out guest bed from the basement. 

“Hm,” Greg said, making a face. There was a pause. “I kind of think we should both camp out in the bigger room, and like, put everything there.”

Tom frowned. “Aren't you sick of my snoring yet?”

“Like, it's not that bad, and honestly, I think it's gonna be too cold if we split up. If you have two people in a room and we can put all our heating resources together it should be okay, maybe.”

Later that night Tom was in bed swiping through his iPad and looking at fridges and ovens. Mondale was asleep balled up on a little rug (another contribution from his mom). The heaters hummed. And Greg was on the foldout, squirming and kicking. He had been for a while. Tom ignored him.

“Tom.” 

Tom wondered if a red fridge would be too ostentatious. Like, there was just such a fine line between dramatic flair and just looking like some rockabilly idiot.

“Tom.” The tone was turning urgent, a little desperate.

Tom sighed. “What, Greg.”

“Like, I can't feel my feet.”

“Just stop thrashing around.”

“But I'm so fucking cold. Like, a lot of people have died from that? Like, a _lot_ of Russians have died from that, for instance.”

“Ru- Jesus.” Tom made a frustrated groan. “Fine, fine, fucking fine, let's swap.”

“Huh?”

“You take the bed. Foldouts are colder but unlike you,” he swung his legs over the frame, iPad in hand, put his slippers on. “I am not a hothouse flower that can't survive anything less than tropical temperatures. Move.”

Greg looked up at him a little quizzically, then got up. The foldout bed creaked when Tom got in. The sheets smelled like Greg's deodorant, the brand Tom had bought him that one time. God, he'd spent so much money on Greg in the beginning. He hadn't even asked him to, Tom had just been so delighted by the rare opportunity to show off his taste, his knowledge, his savvy. And there was, like, a faint note of something very particularly Greg-like in the scent too. Involuntarily Tom inhaled, sharp and deep. 

“Mmmm,” Greg sighed from the other side of the room, finally lying still.

“Better, princess?”

“Yeah, like, you warmed it up for me.” Greg breathed out and it was kind of quivery. Tom made a face. There was something deeply fucking weird about Gregory Hirsch over there like, shuddering with pleasure in a pool of Tom's body heat. It made his stomach feel funny, like he'd eaten too much goat's cheese or something. 

“Well, consider it your Christmas bonus, you weird asshole. Good night.” He put his pad down and turned on his side, determined to sleep.

“Good night, Tom.”


	13. Warm Floors

The days passed, and Greg was still there, sledgehammering through drywall, ripping up flooring, sanding down and oiling some of the wooden furniture Tom wanted to try and salvage. They'd get up around ten, Tom having rediscovered a capacity for sleep he hadn't had since he was in his twenties, work until eight or nine, and then retreat up to the little den they'd made upstairs, share takeaway, watch movies together on Tom's iPad sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bed, knees drawn up. Every once in a while they'd go over to Tom's parents' place for dinner and unasked-for advice. 

Tom wondered if Greg was planning on going back to New York soon. They'd said this would just be for a couple of days, it was going on a couple of weeks now. But he didn't actually want Greg to leave. Even if it would mean getting his fucking bed back. He wasn't as much of a giant clutz or safety hazard as Tom had feared, he did the work pretty efficiently and well as long as he got clear instructions, and even though presenting a pretend boyfriend to his parents at the age of 43 hadn't exactly been on the old bucket list that situation was just weirdly nice, too. They adored Greg. And he put on a good show of being in love with Tom, always sitting close, smiling gently at him, squeezing his hand. One day they'd gone to visit and Greg had been sitting on an armchair, kind of squirming.

“What's wrong, honey?” Tom had said. “Am I going to have to deworm you again?”

“Tommy,” his mom had chided.

“Just, kind of stiff, after all that heavy lifting yesterday, I guess.”

“You boys work too hard,” Tom's mom had said. “Tommy, why don't you just hire some workers, why do you insist on doing everything yourself?”

“We don't do _everything_ ourselves,” Tom had said. “no wiring or dangerous stuff.” He'd walked over, stood behind Greg and almost without thinking let his hands fall to his shoulders, rubbed firmly. Greg had moved a little stiffly with the movements at first, but then he'd gone kind of soft, sighed, tilted his head to one of Tom's forearms. 

Yeah, he was pretty convincing.

*

“Greg? Greg! Greeg. Greg.”

“Huh?”

“Get the fuck in here. Take your shoes off.”

Greg had some grey paint in his hair and scattered over his dungarees as he walked into the downstairs bathroom. Tom had been busy tiling it the past couple of days. 

“Yeah, looks great,” he said, looking around. Tom had been kind of nervous the colorful floor tile he'd chosen would be too flashy, but it gave off the intended effect of an old timey mosaic with the cream wall tiles calming it down. 

“Take your socks off, too.”

“Um-”

“I've already seen your deformed crocodile feet, don't worry about offending me.”

Greg stepped out of his socks. Then his eyebrows raised and he grinned big, so big the apples of his cheeks emerged. “Oh, yeahh!” Tom looked down to see Greg flex his toes against the heated tiles, and even though Greg's toes were objectively really long and weird and gross it was pretty endearing, too. He sat down on his ass, spreading long fingers out on the warm floor. Tom laughed. 

“Nice huh?”

“Oh fuck yeah. I'm moving in here.”

A stray, deranged “you could” almost managed to travel from Tom's brain to his mouth, but he caught it in time.

*

“Do you like this?” Tom asked, grabbing a geometric patterned rug with brown and black and blue squares. The downstairs was more or less ready, painted, wired, and fitted with appliances, so they were at the Furniture Barn looking for inspiration. “I was thinking, for the library.”

“You mean the gaming room? Yeah, I like it a lot.”

“It's not- jesus, I'm not having a fucking gaming room.”

“I kind of think you should? Like, I've never seen you read a book.”

Tom's mouth fell open. “Fuck you! I read all the time.”

Greg laughed. “When?”

“I'm literally halfway through a novel right now? On my iPad?”

“What, you're gonna buy a bookshelf for your iPad?”

“Well, I don't fucking _gaame,_ so.”

“You might like it if you try, and other people do, and you might have company, and-”

“Oh Mr Wambsgans! Mr Hirsch!”

They looked away to see the realtor, Susan whatever, waving at them. Tom grinned. Fucking _perfect._ He grabbed Greg's hand hard and pulled him along.


	14. The Invitation

“Hii,” Tom said, smiling at the realtor, gripping Greg's hand and grinning. “nice to see you!”

“Well nice to see you! I've been meaning to pay a little house call, see how you two are getting on!” the realtor said.

“Oh it's going amaazing,” Tom said. “isn't it, my strapping Clydesdale?”

“Uhh,” Greg said. “yeah, we're like finishing up the first floor? Um, we changed the flooring, and we got some people in to sandblast the roof beams and get rid of the paint and then Tom stained them, it looks awesome, and we knocked down like a wall bit to open up the staircase... and we changed up the kitchen and the bathroom and painted the walls...”

“My! You've been busy!”

“Oh yeah,” Tom said, grinning and nodding. “but it- it's been great.” It came out very sincere sounding and it _felt_ very sincere as well, and he looked up at Greg and he was looking back, smiling. Tom swallowed. 

“I'll be sad when it's over,” Greg said, still looking into his eyes, and for some reason Tom's arms broke out in goosebumps. 

“You know, there's another reason I wanted to come by, apart from how incredibly curious I am to see what you're making of the place,” the realtor said. 

Tom felt smug. He knew it. He knew they were going to get checked up on. 

“We have an annual Christmas fete, it's this Friday? It's for all the employees, partners and friends, but we also invite some of our more memorable clients. And well, when word got out the saltbox house was sold, let's just say I won a lot of bets. Now, I still believe I have your number-” She got her phone out, expertly let her fingers dance over it, and Tom's phone chimed in his pocket. “there's the invite, haha. We would all love it if you came!”

“Sounds fun,” Greg said and Tom raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, I- I guess we deserve a break.”

*

Tom was buttoning up his shirt, feeling a little weird. Maybe going to this fete had been a really stupid mistake. What if these people wanted to be his friends, requested to follow him on Facebook or whatever. Not that he ever updated the fucker, but still. Greg was going to go back to New York eventually, he didn't really need people who thought they were together dropping by. Even if it was just a pretend relationship, he didn't want it to be seen as a failure. He'd had enough of fucking failure. Oh, first his rich, beautiful wife leaves him (not true! He had left her, actually! But everybody just assumed it was the other way around), then his too-young boy toy does, maybe the guy needs to start punching in his own weight class. Start skulking around the circus and meet some fellow clowns and freaks.

Not that Greg was too young for him, he thought, getting angry at the hypothetical people's hypothetical opinions he'd made up in his head. What, he was about ten years younger? Maybe a little bit more? What about Willa and Connor, that was some kind of fucking joke. And Logan had a good twenty years on Marcia, at least, it just kind of didn't look that way when you're both fucking old. Ten years – or a tiny bit more – was fine and normal, and would be basically nothing a few years from now, when he and Greg were- he shook his head. What the fuck was this train of thought. 

There was a light knock and Greg came in, looking very handsome in a dark grey slim fit suit and a geometric pattern shirt with the top buttons open, his hair combed away from his face for once. He had some weird rings on his fingers and Tom's eyes found themselves drawn there.

“Need some help?” Greg asked and Tom realized he'd stopped tying his tie.

“Hehe,” he laughed, sheepishly, but before he could say anything else Greg had walked over and started nimbly tying a half windsor. Tom looked up at him. He really wasn't that bumpkin stoner in a thrifted windbreaker he'd been two years ago anymore. He'd grown up a bit. He'd learned a lot. Honestly, if Tom Wambsgans _was_ in the market for a boyfriend, he could do a hell of a lot worse.

“Ready?” Greg asked.

Tom nodded.


	15. Holly

The Christmas fete was in a very nice, pretty crowded venue. Tom looked around approvingly. The food had been good, the DJ was decent. St. Paul had changed too, in the interim two decades since he'd lived there. At first he'd shrink a little when a random came up to talk to him, assuming he'd been recognized as Siobhan Roy's ex-husband, but all they wanted to talk about was the house, admiring the photos on Tom’s phone with genuine interest. It was weird, but since Greg had arrived he hadn't really given the whole divorce thing all that much thought. It wasn't like – well, obviously he'd been making plans to get his life back on track before Greg lumbered into view, but it really had been heavy on his mind in ways he hadn't even realized. His failure to be the husband she wanted, her failure to live up to his fantasy, the ways they'd hurt each other, the bone deep humiliation he'd felt. Greg had done a pretty good job of distracting him away from all that darkness, without even meaning to. Tom looked fondly over at him, drink in one hand, conversing with a willowy, forty-ish blonde- Tom squinted, there was something oddly familiar ab- oh, fuck. Oh fuck! Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuckohfuckoh-

Greg pointed to him and the blonde turned and Tom met the eye of his ex-girlfriend, Holly Henderson. He plastered on a smile, tried to stem the panic. Run? Could he run? Would that be weird? Well, it wouldn't matter would it, if he didn't stop until he reached Minneapolis. 

Greg and Holly walked towards him and Tom grinned so hard his face hurt. “Hiiii!” he said.

“Hey!” she said, leaned in for a hug, put an arm around him. “Oh my god, Tommy, I can't believe it.”

“Noo! Aha, it's been more than twenty yeears,” he said, pulling away. Technology. Technology would save him. He could be like, oh, my phone is buzzing, I have it on silent but, oh hello? Oh hello what? Oh no, my mother, she's dead, in hospital, me and Greg need to-

“You got _old_ ,” Holly said with a big smile.

“Ahh,” Tom said. “and you haven't changed a bit.”

“I couldn't believe it when I heard you and this tall drink of water bought that old derelict,” she said. “I mean... you with a man, ha ha, I was surprised but I also wasn't? You know?”

Tom cleared his throat. “Yeah, well.”

“I think to this day you're the only man I've been with I've actually seen cry.” She laughed again.

Greg frowned, then stepped next to Tom, put an arm around his shoulder. “I mean, like, being in touch with your emotions is actually a good, thing? So.”

“I know your generation thinks so, sweetheart,” Holly said, not missing a beat, still smiling. “displays like that are a little more unusual for people me and Tom's age. But I guess things didn't work out with the heiress, huh?”

“Ahh,” Tom said again, reduced to the old monosyllabic response he used to have to her jabs. She’d been the most beautiful girl in high school and he’d worked up the nerve to ask her out and to his utter amazement she’d said yes. They’d dated for a pretty long while and it wasn’t really until it was all over, when he got into Columbia University and moved halfway across the country, he’d realized he’d been as much punching bag as boyfriend. 

“Like, maybe you can excuse us?” Greg said. “Because this is like, my favorite song.”

He pulled Tom with him out on the dance floor, and they started dancing to the upbeat Christmas song, Greg putting in some surprisingly competent footwork. The music was unfamiliar to Tom but he liked the sound of it. _You’re here, where you should be, snow is falling as the carolers sing..._

“You don’t have a lot of technique,” Tom said appraisingly. “but you do have a little rhythm, white boy.”

Greg grinned. “What?”

“Wanna see the move that ruled St. Paul school discos in the late 90s?”

“Hit me.”

Tom raised his eyebrows, reached out for Greg’s hands, then pulled him closer, Greg gamely following, and then he spun Greg around and pulled him back so he ended up with his back to Tom’s front, their arms crossed over Greg’s stomach.

“Picture being a pretty redhead about a foot and a half shorter,” Tom said into his neck. “your panties would fall like a wet rag to the floor, my friend.” Greg laughed. Tom spun him back out and then the song changed, into a slowie this time, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“This one I know,” Tom said, leading them into a slow waltz. “Bing Crosby.”

“More your generation?” Greg asked with a slightly tentative smile.

Tom sighed. “Thanks for the rescue mission, back there.”

Greg’s smile faded. “Dude, I’m sorry for bringing her over. She said she knew you, I thought it would like, be nice, not like a roast or whatever. What’s her problem?”

“We dated for about a year,” Tom said. “that was what it was like, the entire time.”

Greg's face went a little hard. “Like- why do you let people treat you like that?”

“What?”

“Like, if it was me being shitty like that to you, you would have told me to go fuck myself, and you would have been right to.”

Tom swallowed, then he stopped, grabbed Greg's arm and pulled him away from the dance floor.


	16. Mistletoe

Tom looked around for a less crowded spot, found one, and guided Greg there, let his voice drop to something reedy and intimate. 

“You know, ah. My mom called me to yell at me the other day.”

“Huh? Why?”

“She thinks I bully you.”

“Oh-” Greg shrugged. “I know you don't like, actually mean it, a lot of the time. It doesn't bother me.”

“No, it's banter, you get that right?”

Greg nodded, shrugged. “Yeah it’s like your sense of humor or whatever, I guess.”

“Because – because I like you, Greg, and I just really want you to know that. You know I don’t- I don’t want to make you feel shitty or small. And I’m- I’m fucking grateful, man, for everything you’ve done over at the house, and, ah-” Tom blinked hard, swallowed. He was a little drunk and this was threatening to undo him. He didn’t really think he had the power to make Greg feel like Holly had made him feel, or like Shiv had made him feel, but he’d been genuinely rattled by the suggestion that was kind of how it was coming across to others. Tom was – like, he was a fun, edgy, witty guy! It was banter! Razzing, between bros! He wasn’t just- being an asshole? Right?

“I like you too, Tom,” Greg said softly. “I came to find you, right? Like, I wouldn’t do that if I was glad to like, be rid of you or whatever.” He audibly swallowed. “I feel like, uh, I should tell you, that like, back in New York-”

“Hey!” A voice called out. “No jabbering under the mistletoe!”

“Huh?” Tom said, then looked up at the green sprig. That explained why this spot had been deserted.

Some people started chanting _kiss- kiss- kiss,_ and Tom swallowed, looked up at Greg who looked a little terrified, like he was the Creature and the partygoers were torch-wielding villagers. Tom tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, like a question. Greg’s mouth fell open a little but he didn’t shake his head. So Tom put both hands on his face and pulled him down, pressed his lips firmly to Greg’s and he'd just meant for it to be a little peck, really, but then Greg kissed him back and his big hand was digging tight into Tom’s shoulder and it was probably the wine and the adrenaline and the ghosts of Christmas fucking past but it felt a little bit like fucking- confetti streamers were going off right in his chest, in every color going, and Greg’s lips were firm and supple and then they parted on a gasp and Tom pulled back. He grinned big and laughed at the ensuing applause. Greg looked dazed. Tom grabbed his arm again, pulled him away from that stupid festive non-consensual make-out plant.

“Do uh, do you wanna leave?” Greg asked. “We can leave.” 

Tom took a deep breath. “No, Greg. You know? Fuck her. The wine is decent, the food is good, most of these people aren’t dicks. Let’s have a good fucking time, my friend.”

“Okay,” Greg said, sounding a little disappointed. He probably felt all weird about the kiss, wanted to go brood or whatever, but there would be none of that. Tom took his hand – weird how that had started feeling like something he was entitled to - and walked him back out on the dance floor. He realized he hadn’t danced since his damn wedding. He used to love to go dancing. 

“I know this one too,” Tom said, pointing upwards. It was that Mariah Carey song.

“Yeah,” Greg said.

“Make my wish come truue,” Tom sang along badly, clasping Greg's fingers to his and leading them into another dance. “all I want for Christmas is youuu!”

Greg's cheeks turned a little red, and then he grinned, stepped a little closer and put a large hand on Tom’s back. Yeah, this was going to be a good night.


	17. Christmas Lights

A car horn honked and Tom jolted awake. It felt like his body has been disassembled and then put together again, badly, sometime during the night. He groaned, shifted. Oh, gross, he was wearing the clothes from the night before. He stank. He rolled over on his back, realized he was in the bed in the upstairs den, not the foldout he'd been sleeping in for the last - man, close to a month now? And his back was still fine. Yeah, he was still in great shape, all that running paid off in the end. It had been a while since he'd drunk this much or stayed out this late though and he felt a bone deep fatigue and a thrumming headache and whimpered. He heard conversation, faintly, coming from the downstairs and frowned. What the fuck? Who the fuck? He raised himself up enough to look out the window. His parents' car. He whimpered again, then got out of bed, got out of his suit and put on a gray sweatsuit, his normal workwear, and lumbered into the bathroom.

"Hey hey!" Greg said, looking indecently fresh-faced and awake and smiling up at him as he walked down the staircase. He was unpacking a big box of something with Tom's dad.

"Hey," Tom said in a slightly broken voice. God, he needed coffee.

Greg walked over to the kitchen unit, poured coffee from the pot and brought a mug over, leaned down to lightly kiss Tom's cheek. His first instinct was to shy away but a sudden fear he'd been saying the inside-his-head stuff out loud and the memory he was still supposed to keep up this relationship act around his parents made him stay put. He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"So ah, hey mommy, hey dad, what are you guys doing here?"

"We brought decorations!" Tom's dad said.

"Yes," Tom's mom nodded. "me and Gregory have been texting and I showed him some pictures of how we used to deck out the house, and he said he's only ever lived in apartments so we made a plan to really brighten this place up. It still looks pretty shabby from the outside, but oh-" she looked around. "you're doing a wonderful job on the inside!"

"Yeah," Tom said. "I mean, the house needs painting, the porch needs staining, the garden needs work, probably a dozen other things, but that's going to have to wait until spring."

"Exactly! But this way it can still look a little festive in the meantime!"

"Rough night last night son?" Tom's dad asked.

"Ahh," Tom said. "it got a little late."

"It was super fun," Greg said. 

"Yeah, we saw the photos on Susan's Facebook, she posted them this morning. There were a few of the two of you, looking a bit schnookered."

Tom frowned. Fuck. "Aren't you supposed to like, get consent before you publish people's pictures on the internet?"

"Do you think there's enough to go in the trees pa?" Greg asked, opening another box.

"Son there's enough lights in there to light up a small south American republic. Go get your jacket and a ladder." 

"Cool!" Greg said, sounding genuinely excited, and the two of them disappeared outside.

Tom drank from his coffee cup, feeling more human with every sip.

"You're going to keep that one around, right?" Tom's mom asked.

"Hm? I mean." Tom shrugged. "He works in New York. So uh, I'm not sure what we're going to do."

"Well, at least he's staying for Christmas."

"Huh?"

"Yes, I asked right now, and he said he's staying with us. That'll be nice, the rest of the family can meet him too. They're all so curious."

Tom closed his eyes. Of course she would have told everyone. God, he needed more coffee.

"He makes you happy," Tom's mom said, in a slightly tremulous voice. "Tommy, you have to know that's all I ever wanted for you. And he's just- well, he's so lovely, and he just adores you. Siobhan was... well." There was a pause. "I tried to hold my tongue, you know I did, but you're one of the good ones Tommy, and you deserve to be with someone who knows enough to appreciate that."

Tom blinked, then walked over and gave his mom a hug. He wasn't sure any of that was true.


	18. The Lilac Room

“It's beautiful,” Greg said. 

“Hm,” Tom replied. They'd been on a walk with Mondale around the lake and Greg had stopped him with a hand on his arm in the driveway, standing there to admire the lights in the dark as fluffy constellations of snowflakes fell slow from the sky. The saltbox house was outlined with lights, the trees in the yard were draped with them. It wasn't the fanciest display but Tom had to admit it looked pretty fucking nice. Or well, was nice the right word? There was nothing sophisticated, good taste or high class about it. But it gave him the same feeling of magic he'd felt when he was a little boy, when decking out the house was a yearly tradition, when he felt certain there was no way Santa would be able to miss their house, lit up like an airport. 

They went back inside, and Mondale shook himself thoroughly before curling into a ball on the sheepskin in front of the fireplace with a deep sigh. 

“He has the right idea,” Tom said. “I'm going to finish up the bedroom. ”

Greg nodded, grabbed a box and followed him inside. The large master bedroom on the ground floor had been painted a gentle lilac, fitted with dark grey shelving, had geometric light fixures installed and a new bedframe carried in, and the new mattress had been aired out for the requisite three days. Tom was, to put it mildly, excited about upgrading from the foldout. He opened the plastic cover of a new high threadcount sheet and Greg grabbed the other side of it, and they spread it out on the mattress, tucking it into the bedframe. Greg then turrned his attention to opening the cardboard box, got a round, black bluetooth speaker out and placed it on a shelf. He fiddled with his phone and some r'n'b song started playing.

“What's this?”

“Oh, I'm just testing it.”

“You said that like, uh, Christmas song was your favorite.”

“Huh?” He looked confused. “Oh! Oh yeah. I just... not really. I don't think I have a favorite song. I have artists I like. Like this guy, he's uh, pretty important to me, Frank Ocean?”

“Frank Ocean?”

“Yeah? You know him?” Greg looked weirdly hopeful. 

“Any relation to Billy?”

“What?”

“Billy Ocean? I know him.”

Greg looked confused. “I don't know.”

“Doesn't matter,” Tom said, threw himself down on the mattress, squirming to test the resistance, the softness. Greg got on the bed as well, laid down next to him, stretching out. Tom glanced over at him. Guess the bed passed the Greg test. Good to know if he ever decided to take up with a baby giraffe or a cedar tree.

“You need a TV,” Greg said, pointed to the wall opposite. “right there.”

“Fuck off. No TV in the bedroom.” He reached over to punch Greg's arm. “Don't think you'll get out of your conjugal duties with Inspector fucking Morse reruns, honey.” He gave Greg's arm a little squeeze. “What the fuck is this? Muscle definition? See what happens when you lift something heavier than the weight of your own imagination.”

“Yeah.”

Tom turned his head to look at him. He looked at Greg's profile, his black hair fanning out, his dark, long lashes, dimples betraying a shy smile. “Why did you agree to spend Christmas with my family?”

“Huh? Do you mind?”

“No,” Tom said. “but... I don't know. Don't get me wrong, it's been very fun, but I would have thought maybe you'd be gearing to gather up your things in a handkerchief on a stick and get out of here? You could've just said you wanted to spend Christmas at your mother's place.” 

Greg's head tilted towards Tom, and he looked at him with dark eyes. “I guess. I'm like, pretty happy just being here though. It's been so cool, working on the house, doing all this shit I had no idea I could do. Like, painting, or grouting, or assembling or restoring furniture... like it's so satisfying. And I mean.” He paused, the silence between them masked by the music Greg had put on playing low in the background. “I like your parents. I like Mondale. And I like the way you act around me, when you pretend you're like, in love with me. You're basically the best boyfriend I've ever had.”

Tom laughed heartily. “Thanks, honey, same to you.”

He smiled a face-wide smile but Greg didn't smile back.

“Guess that's kind of tragic on my end,” Greg said, looking down. “considering it's not even real.”

Tom swallowed, ignored the way his heart had started running laps in his chest, raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying, Greg? You'd like it to be?” He grinned harder, willing Greg to smile back. Greg just looked at him. Tom decided to give him another chance at a gotcha. “What, Greg? You have some hitherto undisclosed kink for divorced sad sacks in their forties? If so, Waystar should have been a real smorgasbord for you, haha.”

Greg sighed a little. “I'm gonna go to bed, I think. Goodnight, Tom.” He started getting up, raised himself up on his arms. 

“Greg,” Tom said, sat up too and touched his shoulder. 

“It doesn't matter,” Greg said, running a hand hard through his hair. “like, obviously it's hopeless.”

“What is?”

Greg turned slowly towards him. The tip of his tongue came out to flick over his lips and Tom's eyes fell to his mouth. And then he leaned in and pressed his lips to Tom's in a feather-soft kiss.


	19. american_wedding.mp3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3C0tPaHLhqQ) is the Frank song referenced in this chapter

The kiss was careful, shallow of breath, undemanding. But it was still one of the most terrifying and thrilling kisses of Tom Wambsgans' life. But he didn't pull away, didn't really kiss back either, just let Greg kiss him all gentle. 

Greg pulled back, studied Tom's face with a keen look and then swallowed audibly. “Fuck. I'm sorry. Let's just, uh.”

“No, no,” Tom said. 

“I just, fuck, I just-” There was a familiar breathless panic creeping into Greg's voice and Tom knew he had to say something or he'd be peeling the big emu off the ceiling next, but he had no idea what to say, instead he cupped Greg's face, directing it to his and leaned in for another kiss. Greg responded instantly, sinking into him, big clumsy hands gripping and stroking and touching from Tom's shoulder and down his arm and then up to his face. 

“Tom,” he whispered. “Tom.”

Tom's hand was still on Greg's face and he used his thumb to stroke an arch on Greg's cheek and he leaned into the touch like an affectionate cat, sighed in a shuddery sort of way and closed his eyes. He looked- beautiful. Tom blinked. What was this? They'd been pretending and living in each other's pockets for so long they'd developed some sort of mutual Stockholm Syndrome? 

“How long?” Tom asked, curious.

Greg's hand came up to cover Tom's. “I don't even know. Some times I think from the first day I met you?” He turned his face and kissed Tom's wrist. 

“Jesus,” Tom said.

“Can I kiss you again?” Greg asked.

Tom's breath sounded very loud in his head when he leaned in and pressed his lips to Greg's. 

For a while they just sat there, in bed, trading gentle, breathless kisses and aimlessly pawing at each other, like one of them was just waiting for the other to come to their senses and end this insanity, and Tom had the thought that person should probably be him. Instead he leaned in closer, swiped the tip of his tongue over Greg's full bottom lip and Greg just, sighed, his lips parting, and then their tongues met all soft and goosebumps raced up Tom's body like an electric current, all the way to his scalp. Then Greg's r'n'b music, which was still playing in the background, changed into something familiar and Tom pulled away. 

“Huh? I know this. This is Hotel California. This is the Eagles.”

“Huh? Yeah, uh, it's a sample.”

Tom blinked. “Holy shit.” Even in this cover or sample version or whatever the sheer erotic power of that song was undeniable. Almost on their own accord, Tom's hands found their way to the end of Greg's long sleeved T-shirt and pulled it off over his head. He looked appraisingly at him for a few moments before Greg leaned in for another kiss with parted lips, and yeah, Cousin Greg had reaped some benefits of doing physical labor for probably the first time in his life. He was still thin and long and pale but his arms and shoulders looked filled out and firm and were, Tom could confirm, rather fucking nice to touch. 

Greg's hands dragged down Tom's back and then his thumbs disappeared under the edge of Tom's hoodie and he pulled back from the kiss enough to say, “you too,” with slick lips. 

“Okay,” Tom said, circling one of Greg's wrists with his hand. “I should just warn you.”

“Huh?”

“I- well, since I came out here, I haven't ah, been keeping up with the old, manscaping haha.”

“What?”

“You know I just. Had a person? When I lived in New York? Kept things ah, neat and, trim, but um I didn't think uh, this would.” Tom wasn't sure where he was going with that sentence so he cut his losses.

Greg frowned, looked even more confused than normal. “Are you apologizing for being hairy or something?”

“Shiv used to joke I could moonlight at the anthropology exhibition at the Natural History Museum,” Tom said, tried to smile. Greg huffed, jerked his hand out of Tom's grip, pulled off Tom's hoodie in a swift and determined movement and then Tom swallowed and reached behind his neck to pull his T-shirt over his head. Greg ran his hands down Tom's bare chest, fingers pressing down lightly, moving sinuously downwards. 

“You’re like, hot as _fuck_ , Tom. Like... holy shit.”

“You think so?” Tom said, genuinely curious, and immediately regretted it. Begging for validation like an incredulous wallflower being given a second look by the quarterback. He never used to have any hangups about his looks, his desirability. Jesus, the last year had been rough in ways he hadn’t even begun to unpack. 

“Mmm,” Greg said, leaned in for another deep kiss while his hand still travelled down, past Tom's stomach and then turning fingertips first to slip into the waistband of his sweatpants and comb through the thatch of his pubes and even though the first touch to Tom's dick was sweet and careful it had just been so fucking long since the last time a hand besides his own had been down there and coupled with that thrusting Eagles guitar, Tom gasped into Greg's mouth, genuinely worrying this might be over before it had barely got started, but then both of Greg's hands were on his ass, squeezing, and Tom found himself raising himself up to let him, to give him more, to give him whatever he wanted.

“Maybe you could, like, on your back?” Greg urged and Tom rolled over, and Greg pulled both Tom's sweatpants and his boxers off in one movement, and then he was just lying there on his new high treadcount sheet, naked and hard and wholly untrimmed, and Greg was looking down on him with an expression of open lust and then he started opening his jeans to free his straining erection and Tom just felt deranged, closed his eyes and threw his arms over his head. Then he felt the mattress dip and two large palms on both his knees, urging him to draw them up, and he dared open his eyes to see Greg, as naked as himself, crouching inbetween his legs and licking his lips.

“Tom,” he said, all reverently. “do you think it would be okay if I sucked your dick?”

“Uh huh,” Tom said, heard his own voice go weak and reedy. “knock yourself out, buddy.”


	20. Breakfast

Tom woke up with a long arm around his waist, a warm body pressed up against his back and an even breath against his neck, and he instantly knew it was Greg, like a body memory. Like the time at the yacht. He'd really thought Greg was just being a bro huh? A good pal? As if Tom would ever spoon Jonas, or Dan, no matter how miserable they were. As if he'd ever let them do it to him. He gently disentangled himself and slid out of bed, walked naked into the little ensuite and showered, brushed his teeth, let his eyes linger at the dark red mark on his neck in the mirror. It made his breath catch in his throat. He prepared to meet Greg's eye coming back out, tried out a smile to prepare. But the man was still comatose, arm slung out on the mattress where Tom had been, as if reaching for him. Tom suddenly felt so overcome with fondness he felt a little light-headed with it. He ran his fingertips over Greg's cheek, unfamiliarly rough with stubble, and Greg's mouth twitched briefly into a smile but he was still dead to the world. Tom covered him up with the duvet, sighed and pulled on his clothes discarded from the night before. He walked out into the little hallway, dove gray and smelling like fresh paint, ready for Tom's pictures and prints, then past the room that would be a library, past the semi-open kitchen with its gleaming new appliances and out into the living space. Mondale woke up from the noise of his footsteps and stretched long before good-naturedly walking over to say hi.

"I'm in trouble, boy," Tom told him. 

Mondale wagged his tail.

"What the fuck am I going to do?"

Mondale's tail wagged harder, and he emitted a low "woof".

"Yeah, you're right. I could do with a walk. Clear my head."

He put on his jacket, a woolly hat and his boots, leashed up Mondale and walked out. The sun was rising and the white snow made the morning brighter. The air was crisp and cold. He walked a little aimlessly, let Mondale explore and set the pace. God, what a mess. Was this bad? Well, it was probably all bad. All that lying. And forcing Greg into a situation like that when he'd apparently been harboring – feelings – for him, for _him_ \- all this time. He had wondered about Greg's apparent lack of a dating life, he was young, handsome, wealthy and new in a big city, after all, but he'd been grateful for it too. He made a snowball, tossed it and Mondale jumped to catch it. He hadn't wanted competition for Greg's attention, had he? He sighed. What was he going to do?

Half an hour later he and Mondale came back to the house. “Greg?” Tom called out, taking off his jacket. Mondale raced over to the bedroom door, wagged his tail and put out a paw to the door.

“Come here, come here Mondale. Here. Let him sleep. He had a big night, haha.”

Mondale waited for a beat, then walked over to Tom, visibly disappointed, clearly feeling the shame of derelicting his dog duty to wake everyone in the house with wet paws and a cold nose. 

Tom was busy in the kitchen when Greg finally lumbered out, wearing the robe Tom had hung up in the ensuite. Mondale greeted him happily and was rewarded with head pats and then he came over, looked shy and a little unsure.

“Hey ah, good morning,” Tom said,

“Hey,” he said softly. He leaned in a little tentatively and kissed Tom and Tom kissed back and yeah, it was just really fucking nice. “what are you making?”

“Uh, french toast. You like that?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“Coffee's ready... kitchen table's a fucking mess though.” He looked over at it, full of tools, paint buckets, trash bags. “Wanna picnic over by the fireplace?”

Greg beamed at him.


	21. The Party

Greg's pale face turned red quick in the cold and the chilled blush was spreading from his nose and across his cheeks, and his long legs were moving fast to get inside. Tom stopped him with a hand on his arm, his other hand occupied with holding Mondale's leash.

“What?” Greg asked, stopping.

“Just, uh. About tonight.”

“You nervous?” Greg asked, squinting a little, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth.

“No I-” Tom looked up at his parents' house. “just, the last time the whole family was together, ah, I don't know, I was in a pretty bad place. Pretty bad mood. The divorce was still very fresh, I was- well, I guess I was kind of depressed. And I guess it wasn't intentional... but they made me feel...” He grimaced. “Hey, I know, why don't you uh, why don't you make a gesture?”

“Huh?”

“I just, it would be nice to kind of appear a little more successful than I did last time. New house, new relationship...” Greg smiled at the r-word. Tom wasn't sure that's the r-word he'd use for the past few days though. Maybe revelation. “So if you could make a like, a gesture, so everyone knows this is like, a really good, healthy situation... that would be cool.”

“What kind of gesture?”

“I don't know.” Tom frowned. “Hey, maybe you can say that for my Christmas present you're taking me to Paris? Or wait, maybe I should be the one buying you trips. Spoil you. Uhh. Maybe you can kind of hint I have a really big dick?”

“To your family?”

“You're right, bad idea. Just uh, think of something.”

“Yeah, okay, sure. Can we go inside though? I'm freezing.”

So they did, and there were hugs when Tom's parents came to greet them, and Tom introduced Greg to aunts and uncles and cousins and his grandma, plus his aunt's Pomeranian and his cousin's German Shepherd. Greg gamely and politely answered curious queries, expertly brushed off “you're Siobhan's _cousin?_ ” with a shrugging “we're not close” and the punchline “not anymore anyway” which got good-natured, scandalised laughs. 

There was turkey and mashed potatoes and casseroles and roasted brussel sprouts and wine and beer.

After all the food everybody were lightly knocked out in the living room, playing with the dogs and trying to drum up some appetite for dessert later. Tom came back from a trip to the bathroom and caught Greg's eye, he was in conversation with a cousin and she was laughing. Greg raised an eyebrow, like a question. Had he come up with something? Surreptitiously, Tom nodded. Greg cleared his throat and tapped his glass. 

“Uhh, if I could, perhaps get some attention, I would like to uh speak?”

He walked over to Tom and Tom smiled up at him. Greg put his glass on a mantelpiece, started gesticulating. 

“First of all uh, thank you, for um inviting me and being so- nice and everything, because Tom was kinda nervous-”

Tom laughed a little.

“But I knew it was going to be fine, because your family loves you, and uh, I love you too. Tom. Like, a lot. And... for a long time.”

Not bad, Tom thought approvingly. A love declaration. The perfect gesture. Simple and effective. He really wasn't as stupid as he looked. 

Then, Greg got down on one knee. A soft gasp travelled like a wave through the room. He grasped Tom's hand.

“And uh... like, I would like, to ask you, in front of your family and um everyone- Thomas Wambsgans – would – would you marry me?”

“Aaaahaha!” Tom brayed, every cell in his body screaming in confused panic. “Aah! Yes!” Greg got up and Tom hugged him to him, whispered in his ear, low enough nobody else would hear, _“I am going to fucking kill you.”_

“Oh goodness me,” Tom's mom said, emotional. In a daze Tom fielded a couple of minutes of congratulations and cheers, his hand digging angrily into the flesh of Greg's shoulder, and then the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” Tom's dad said. He came back a moment later, and he wasn't alone.

“Hey hey hey,” Roman Roy said.


	22. Roman

It had been such a long time since Tom had seen Roman that his expensive designer wear and haircut no longer looked commonplace or familiar. He looked like an alien visitor. 

Roman looked around, took the living room in. Tom's parents were solidly upper middle class and their house was good-sized but in Roy terms it was basically a Tijuana outhouse and Tom felt keenly aware of that fact. That sense of inferiority had become unfamiliar too, and it stung. 

“Wow. It's like the Midwest got its own showcase at Epcot.” He picked up a porcelain figurine of a dog from a shelf. “The fuck.”

“Roman?” Tom said. “What- what are you doing here?”

“What do you think? I've come to drag this long gangly fuck back to New York by his dick,” Roman said, going over to the coffee table and helping himself to eggnog, nodding at Greg. Tom looked at Greg, who did the thing where he tried against all physical laws of nature to make himself small and invisible. 

“Greg?” Tom said.

“You were not easy to find, Cousin Greg. But Kendall the secretive finally complained about how he gave you the COO position and then you just disappeared in mixed company-”

“COO?!” Tom said.

“-and Willa was there,” Roman said, ignored Tom. “and she, apparently, has access to your finsta.”

“What?” Tom said.

“It's like a locked account,” Greg said. "um, that only my friends can follow."

“And she said, youu were in fucking _Minnesota,_ restoring a _house,_ apparently your account went from black and white photos of your fucking coffee and Walter Bazar quotes to midday HGTV.” He grabbed a cheeseball from the table, bit into it, then made a "bleeh" noise and let it fall back out of his mouth to the tray, wiped his tongue with a napkin. “And since you're certainly not in St. Paul for the food, we figured you were here to support your boy.”

“Kendall made you COO?” Tom asked.

“Umm,” Greg said. “yeah?”

“I thought you said it was all about to blow up in your face?”

“Blow up?” Roman said. “Fucking emperor Kendall did a thing correctly in his life and staged a successful coup. He's the new CEO of Waystar Royco. Don't you yokels get the internet out here?”

“Well-” Tom's dad said. “that's just unnecessary. And well, Greg and Tom just got engaged, so maybe there are more important things than-”

Roman laughed, a high and loud laugh. “I'm sorry what? What? Does engaged mean something else out here in the sticks?”

“No,” Tom's dad said. “Greg just proposed.”

“Oh, fuck all the way off.” Roman laughed again. “Tom? With Greg? No offense, but I'm pretty sure Granny Wamb over here leads a more sexually adventurous life than fucking Tom. Hey there.” He winked at Tom's 86-year-old grandma. “This is a scam, right? I'm willing to bet the two of you rubbed your half a brain cells together again and came up with some idiot plan. What is it? Did your tourist visa expire, Canada boy?”

“You are being preposterous,” Tom's mom said, offended. “my son has no reason to lie about-” she stopped abruptly, then turned on her heel to face Tom. “Thomas!!”

“Uuuuuuh” Tom said.

“The contract? The relationship clause? Did you lie about all this so you could buy a _house?_ ”

Roman clapped his hands. “Yeah, yeah. Greg, can we fucking go, this is a fun party and all but I promised Kendall I'd get you back by tonight and the car is waiting. Oh. And you know who else is waiting? Andrew.”

“Andrew?” Tom said.

“Fuck,” Greg said.

“Yeah, your boyfriend, remember? Another one left with his dick in his hand wondering where the fuck you went.”

Tom felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach by King Kong. He had to get out of there. “Excuse me, just, I just need a tiny, I need to go get something from the car,” he said in a thin voice, quickly walked past Roman, slipped his feet into the nearest pair of shoes and grabbed his jacket, walked outside and slammed the door behind him.


	23. Snow

It was dark and it snowed and the shoes Tom had taken, whoever's they were, were kind of slippery on the ice. But whatever. He just- he just had to get back to the saltbox house. Alone. Maybe he should have taken the car keys too. But how long a walk could it be? An hour? Two? No problem. No problem at all.

“Tom? Tom!”

Tom looked over his shoulder to see Greg, not even wearing a jacket, stumbling after him. 

“Fuck off.”

“Tom, stop, please.” 

Tom turned, almost fell and slipped, then doubled over to gather up a snowball, brandished it threateningly. "Stay away!"

"Like, can you give me a chance to explain? Ow!"

The snowball made a direct hit to Greg's shoulder, and Tom gathered up another. “Boyfriend? You have a fucking boyfriend?” He could hear a humiliating wobble creep into his voice.

“Tom- fuck!” He managed to dodge that one.

“What the fuck- what the fuck happened to just, being with one person at the time? What happened to being with someone, BREAKING UP WITH THEM, and THEN going on to the fucking next? Huh? Is it seriously just me? Did I time travel in from nineteen fucking fifty into some futureland orgy where just being with one person is never going to be enough? It has to be a god damn multi-state conglomerate of body fluids?” He bent down to scrape together another snowball.

“He's not my boyfriend! We went on a few dates is all!”

Tom packed the snowball up between his hands. Making it nice and firm. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! Like, okay, I kind of ghosted, maybe I should have like, but god, he's not my boyfriend, I fucking swear, I promise.” Greg stared, his eyes going big and round. “Like- I- I tried to date a bit, after you left. Tabitha set me up with Andrew, so Roman met him. He was nice. But I mean - like, he wasn’t you.”

“What?”

Greg took a deep breath. “I tried to forget you. But I couldn't. Then, like, Shiv told us about the divorce being finalized and how you'd gone back to St. Paul, and I thought, now or never right? So I came to find you.”

“What about the- you said, you said- there were lawsuits-”

“Yeah, I know.” Greg hugged himself, clearly feeling the chill. He should have brought his jacket. “I didn’t lie about the lawsuits, by the way, but they’re not a big deal, the legal team is dealing with them. I just like, needed an excuse to hang out for a bit, I guess?”

“You left a COO position in one of the world's top 100 companies to go to St. Paul and _hang out_ with me?” Tom dropped the snowball. It was kind of cold in his hands.

“I mean, I didn't like _resign_ , I just kind of ghosted. I thought maybe just, it'd be a week, and I'd be back, or maybe I could convince you to come back with me or whatever... then like the house thing happened and everything and...” He shrugged with big bony shoulders. “some times time just p-p-passes super fast, you know?”

“You idiot,” Tom said, and then again, with more emphasis. “you _idiot_.”

Greg’s body had started visibly shivering now. He came closer, still hugging himself. “S-s-sorry ab-b-bout the p-p-proposal,” he said. “that was p-probably st-stupid.” His teeth had started chattering, rendering him nearly incomprehensible. Tom made a face, then took his jacket off, draped it around Greg and pulled him close and thin grateful arms hugged close around him. 

“Yeah it was,” Tom said, rubbed Greg’s long back with a hand. “nevermind though. It ‘s all out in the open now.” He looked down. “Jesus, you’re not even wearing fucking shoes. Come on, let’s go back inside, let’s face the music.”

Greg shook his head. “J-just one more thing? I – I love you, Tom. I w-wasn’t lying about that. I d-d-do.”

Tom blinked. Then he took a deep breath. “God fucking help me. I love you too.”

Inside the house, several Wambsganses and one Roy were gathered by the big window in the living room, and watched Tom and Greg as they kissed, Tom’s jacket over Greg’s shoulders and Greg's hands catching in Tom's cardigan.

“Huh,” Roman said. “maybe old Wamb is more of a freak than I had him pegged for.” He looked over at Tom’s grandma. “Bet I know where he gets it from.”


	24. Christmas Day

Tom blinked awake, sighed. Greg was awkwardly curled up around him. No matter where on the wide bed he fell asleep, looking at his phone or his game or whatever, even on the rare occasions he was angry with Tom for some reason, he'd end up barnacled to him during the night, attracted to the warmth of his body like a heat seeking missile. He stroked Greg's cheek with the back of his hand.

"Hey. Greg. Wake up."

"Uhhm."

"Greeeg."

"Hey," Greg sighed, his arm coming in for a tighter embrace, his fingers absently combing through the hair on Tom’s chest.

"You know what day it is, Gregory?"

"Uh. Thursday? Maybe? Oh-" His eyes finally opened. "hey, it's Christmas!"

"Yes it is," Tom said. "wanna go see if Santa brought you anything?" Greg giggled and Tom pushed closer. "Or have you been a bad boy?"

"No," Greg said with a smile in his voice.

"Hey Greg?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of present are you hoping for? A soft one... or a hard one?"

Greg giggled again, pulled Tom on top of him, snaked a hand between their bodies.

"Oh god, yeah, attaboy,"

"uhhnn"

A little later they walked out of the bedroom, hands loosely tangled, through the dove gray hallway decorated with Tom’s pictures and prints and Greg’s photos, one of them on that vacation in Paris, smiling for the camera with flutes of champagne. They walked past the library slash gaming room, which had dark wooden bookshelves lining one wall and a big flat screen TV on the other, with six different gaming consoles attached. They walked into the open kitchen where Tom had unceremoniously dumped the Greg detritus that normally covered the table in a bag and decorated it for Christmas with a red tablecloth, tea lights and a piney centrepiece bought at a local Christmas market. The upstairs bedrooms had been converted into offices, one for Tom and one for Greg. They spent most of their time in the New York apartment, but came away to St. Paul as often as they could so having good working spaces was important. But it was Christmas, it was the holidays, they had two weeks off and all the time in the world to be lazy.

After going for a short walk with Mondale Greg stoked a fire in the fireplace and Tom made hot chocolate. The tree had been placed not too far off and they traded presents sitting down on the sheepskin rug, Mondale lying inbetween them. 

Tom got his favorite chocolates, a new case for his phone in Italian leather, a pocket square from his favorite brand. Greg got a signed Frank Ocean LP, a pair of very nice gloves, a selection of local craft beers. 

"Ready for the main present?" Greg asked.

"Bring it on." 

Greg looked down, magicked up a tiny box and opened it to reveal a thin band in white gold. He bit his lip. "Remember a year ago when I asked you to marry me on like a whim and you said you'd kill me?"

"Greg..."

"Like, you didn't say no though, you said yes, and you haven't taken it back, like I don't think a death threat counts as a cancellation. I mean I asked Angela and she said that like as an attorney she thinks I have a pretty good case oral agreement wise, but it would be a nice good faith gesture to like uh reintroduce the offer.”

“You talked to my mom about this?” 

Greg cleared his throat. “So uh, I’m going to ask you again, if that’s okay.” Big blue eyes met Tom’s. “Is that okay?”

Tom rested a hand on Greg’s bony knee and nodded.

“Cool. Cool cool.” Greg smiled nervously, got the ring out of the case. Tom thought he could see his hand tremble a little. “Officially, and legally, and um with, the blessing of your parents - do - do you wanna get married, Tom?”

Tom looked down for a moment. “I don’t want you to think that’s something we need to do. As someone who once had a lot of grand ideas about marriage, let me tell you it won’t change a thing.”

”I don’t want anything to change,” Greg assured. “and we can be engaged for a super long time. I just... fuck, like, down the line?” He smiled. “I just wanna lock it down.”

Tom smiled back. That had been him once, looking all goofily hopeful and with his head full of notions of family and forever. He leaned forward, took Greg's face in both hands and kissed him, told him “yeah. Yes” and drank up his wide grin, his dimples, let him a little tremblingly put the ring on his finger. At least he was going to go into this trying his damndest to make those dreams come true for him.

Then the doorbell rung, and Tom pulled away, got up and answered, came back with a big wrapped box. "Got you something too," he said, carefully placed it in front of Greg. "uh, don't fucking shake it."

Mondale sniffed the box intently, huffing and wagging his tail. 

“Oh shit, I thought the album was the main thing.” Greg pulled the lid off and his mouth fell open. "No waay dude." He pulled out the sleepy-eyed puppy. Mondale shoved his nose at it, fascinated. “Oh man! Aw, oh hey little dude! You’re so cute!”

Tom draped his arm around Greg and he leaned his body into him, cradling the puppy who sleepily pushed its head into Greg’s chest and made a tiny noise, while Mondale kept nosing and investigating, tail wagging. 

It was funny. A little over a year ago, Tom’s life had been in ruins. He turned his face to kiss the side of Greg's head. Luckily, it was always possible to build a new one.


End file.
